Good Enough
by dysprositos
Summary: Tony Stark was not a team player. It was something he was proud of; he wore it like a badge: 'Does not play well with others.' Which was all well and good, but sometimes when he acted on his own, he got hurt. And that's something Steve won't let happen anymore.


**Warnings: nothing, really. **

**Thanks to my awesome beta, irite, for, well, being awesome. And beta-y.**

**I do not own The Avengers.**

* * *

"Okay, I get it," Tony snarled. "Stop with the fucking lecture already!"

Steve sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You _don't_ get it, though. If you 'got it' you'd stop _doing _it. And this is the third time this has happened—"

"Yeah, I know. This is the third time I've had to sit through your lecture." Tony raised an eyebrow. "For the number of times you've given it, it's not getting any better. Haven't you heard of these things called 'synonyms?'"

"If you don't want to hear my lecture," Steve ground out, "Then stop acting like a reckless _idiot_ and just _listen _to me when I'm trying to tell you—"

Tony interrupted him again, "Look, _Captain_, I'm not some little soldier you can order around. I'm not your _subordinate_. If you think you can tell me how to do my thing, if you think you know _better _than me, you're fucking wrong, Gramps."

Steve didn't rise to the bait, though, didn't lash out in turn. Because for all Tony's bluster, for all his anger and insults, the billionaire was still sporting two black eyes from his broken nose, and the cast on his arm stuck out sharply against his expensive suit. He'd only been out of the hospital for twelve hours, and it was the third time something like this had happened in just under two years.

So Steve wasn't going to yell, no matter how much he wanted to.

Tony Stark was _not _a team player. It was something he was proud of; he wore it like a badge: 'Does not play well with others.' And almost two years of working as part of a team hadn't made him into any more of a team player than he had been when the 'Avengers Initiative' had started. Sure, sometimes he was okay with taking orders. He'd been known to make the 'sacrifice play.' But for the most part, he had always preferred, and would always prefer, to do what he wanted, when he wanted.

The problem, as far as Steve saw it, was that when Tony did what he wanted, when he wanted, he sometimes did things that were stupidly dangerous. Reckless. He took risks he didn't need to take. He was an adrenaline junkie, loved the thrill of close shaves, loved, apparently, seeing his life flash before his eyes.

It was something Steve tried to understand, but he just couldn't. He couldn't wrap his head around it, could not _fathom _what was going on in Tony's mind that he just didn't seem to care about the danger he was constantly putting himself in. He attempted to broach the topic more than once, but Tony was about as likely to talk about that sort of thing as, well, any of them were. Which is to say, not very likely at all. The term 'private people' didn't do enough to sum up Steve's team and their issues.

Despite that, Steve didn't like seeing his teammate (and, yes, friend, no matter what Tony might say) putting himself in unnecessary danger for the thrill of it. So he tried to be a good leader, to give good orders. Tried to keep his team safe, to be good enough, to be the leader that his team needed. But doing all of that required that his team trust him, that they actually _follow _his orders. And for whatever reason, Tony just...wouldn't.

Usually, everything ended up okay. The suit was sturdy and protected Tony from a lot of damage. Tony was smart, he was fast, he knew what he was doing. But sometimes, things went badly. Tony was distracted, or he underestimated his enemy, and those times, when he went off on his own, he got hurt.

The first time had been a concussion. The second time had been a series of second and third degree burns. And this time, it was a broken nose and a broken arm. All because Tony thought he knew better than everyone.

Because he didn't trust anyone.

Instead of getting angry and yelling (partly because he'd gone that route before, knew it was futile and partly because he just couldn't yell at someone looking so _pathetic_), Steve decided to try something else. He looked up, meeting Tony's irritated glare, and asked calmly, softly even, "Why do you keep doing this?"

That clearly wasn't what Tony had been expecting—these encounters always followed a pattern, and this was breaking away from that. He opened his mouth and snapped it shut again, and then blinked several times. Finally, he responded, "Keep doing...what?"

"Going off on your own. Ignoring orders."

This was more familiar territory. "Because I don't _take _orders. Why should I listen to you?"

Steve tried very hard to keep anything patronizing, sanctimonious, or lecture-y out of his voice. "Because I want to keep you safe."

"I don't need you to keep me safe." Cold, hard, fact.

"I'm sorry, but you're wrong," Steve growled, temper rising. He gestured roughly towards Tony's arm, towards his puffy, bruised face. "You're doing a damn poor job of it on your own."

Tony rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically before turning to leave. "Yeah, we're done here. I don't need you to tell me what I can and can't do. I'm a grown-ass man. I'm older than you are, Capsicle."

That wasn't technically true, but Steve didn't comment on it. Instead, he snapped, suddenly angry, "If you can't get it together, you're going to be off the team. I can't let you keep putting yourself in danger." He _couldn't _do it, couldn't take responsibility for whatever waited at the end of the path Tony was determined to walk.

Shoulders stiffening, Tony stopped. Back turned to Steve, he muttered, "Whatever you think's best, Captain."

As Tony stalked away, Steve couldn't help but feel that had been the exact wrong thing to say.

But, in this situation, was there a _right_ thing to say?

* * *

Both of them mostly forgot about their little chat, at least, it didn't come up again. Things continued more or less like they had before, and if Tony was making any kind of an improved effort to _not _get himself killed, well, Steve didn't notice it. But he nonetheless persisted in trying to get Tony to listen, to think, to act as part of the team. It remained clear, though, that Tony wasn't interested in listening to what he had to offer, was going to do whatever reckless, stupid thing he wanted regardless of what Steve wanted.

It was...infuriating. And Steve worried that sooner or later, their luck was going to run out and they were going to run into disaster.

For six more months, though, luck was on their side. At least, Steve saw it as luck. When he tried to express this to Tony, tried to get him to see how close they kept coming to screwing up, how close Tony had come to injury or worse, Tony just brushed him off. He completely refused to see Steve's point of view, calling him timid, over-cautious, and a whole slew of less flattering terms as well. No matter what Steve said, Tony only responded with insults, with sarcasm. And his stupid stunts just kept getting worse, getting more and more reckless. It was like he was going out of his way to be contrary, to push Steve's buttons.

Steve had no idea _why, _and he didn't know what to do about it, and so he just worried constantly. He could see that keeping himself safe wasn't anywhere on Tony's list of priorities, and as hard as he tried, he knew he couldn't keep Tony safe on his own. Especially if he wouldn't _listen_.

But good luck kept the billionaire in one piece, seemingly despite his best efforts, and Tony skirted disaster constantly, usually with a smirk and a smart remark. Always with the smart remarks, actually.

Good luck never fails to runs out, though.

The mission had been simple enough, at least in theory. But things were never as simple in practice as they were on paper, and things had started going wrong from the beginning.

Still, everything might have ended up okay, except Tony decided to take the initiative and head into the situation as quickly as he could. Against Steve's direct orders—Steve thought the building they were trying to infiltrate had been rigged to blow.

He'd been right.

Tony had been completely crushed, more or less, under several tons of concrete when the whole damn building fell on top of him. Thor had unearthed him once the ensuing battle was over, and he'd been unconscious, broken, twisted, limbs awkward and askew.

Hours and hours later, at the hospital, Steve had been sitting next to Tony's bed (Pepper was flying in from Southeast Asia, had been delayed by a storm in the Northwest), watching his slow heartbeat on the monitor, taking in the tubes and casts and bandages, the screws and pins holding Tony together, when Bruce had come in.

"Hey," Bruce greeted him, snagging Tony's chart from the foot of his bed and sitting in the chair next to Steve. He flipped through Tony's chart before sighing and leaning back, rubbing his forehead. "The doctors say...he might wake up. He might not. If he does, he might not be...the same. He's looking at years of rehab, if he ever walks again at all..." he trailed off, apparently realizing he was rambling, taking his glasses off to polish the lenses roughly on his shirt.

Steve had heard this already straight from the doctors, but hearing it from his friend and teammate was somehow more solid, more concrete. Pushing through the sinking feeling in his stomach, he asked, "What're his odds?"

Bruce gave him a grim smile. "They can't really predict these things, Steve. With that kind of damage...it's a miracle he's alive at all."

They exchanged no more words that night.

But Steve knew what he had to do.

* * *

Tony did wake up, though. Against the odds, against all hope, he woke up.

The first day, he was conscious for only ten minutes. The next was better, though not by much. For a month, he struggled through increasingly lengthy bouts of alertness, until he was finally able to remain awake for a several hours at a time.

That's when Steve, absent for those four weeks, finally came to see him.

It was incredibly awkward.

They struggled through five endless minutes of greetings and fumbling inquiries into each other's well-being, until Steve finally got to the reason he'd stopped by a month late. "Tony. I talked to Director Fury, and he agrees...you're off the team."

Tony's eyes widened minutely, and he looked, in that moment, hurt—no, _wrecked_—but then he covered it with a smirk. Casting his eyes down towards his mangled, broken body, he asked, "What the hell makes you think I'd _want _to be on the team?"

But Steve knew he cared, knew this was hurting him deeply (because Tony wasn't half the actor he thought he was). Despite knowing his words were tearing Tony apart, Steve barreled on, "It's too dangerous. I told you...you had to get it together. You can't keep letting yourself get hurt—"

"Why does that matter so much to you?" Tony interrupted. "It's not like it's a big deal, it's just—"

"Not a big deal?" Steve interrupted Tony's interruption. "Look at you, you might never walk again, and you're saying it's not a big deal? I'm doing this to _protect _you!"

For a long moment, Tony didn't answer him. When he did, his voice was completely flat. "Got it, Cap. Really. You can go."

"Tony—"

"Look. I knew from the start I was never going to be good enough for your fucking team. Only thing I'm surprised about is that it took you so long to notice it. So why don't you just get the fuck out of here?"

Steve felt like he'd been punched in the gut. All this time, Tony had been trying to _prove_ something? That he belonged on the team? Or...that he didn't? Steve honestly couldn't tell—all the stupid, life-threatening stunts could have been _either_, really, and he didn't know enough about Tony, even after more than two years, to begin to fathom _what _the billionaire was trying to accomplish.

He stared, open-mouthed, at Tony for a good ten seconds, but Tony would not look at him, refused to acknowledge that he was still there, and so Steve slipped from his room, leaving the hospital far behind.

Later, sipping his third pointless beer (and mulling over the logistics of an Avengers team sans Tony), he would wonder if he had really done the right thing. What Tony had said...Steve didn't know if kicking him off the team was doing anything more than playing into whatever scenario he had constructed, was doing anything besides affirming Tony's twisted logic.

Striking Tony from the team was the only way to keep him safe, it seemed, but at the same time...

Was he truly keeping Tony out of danger, or was he just leaving the billionaire to self-destruct on his own?

* * *

**Writing Steve is pretty much my least favorite thing ever; this is stage one in a multi-step process to make it less unpleasant for me.**

**Edited to add: I am not 100% certain this is finished, but given the huge number of WIPs I have going, I'm unwilling to commit to starting another one. I might add more to this in the future, but I'm marking it as 'complete' for now so as to not get anyone's hopes up.**

**So what did you think?**


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